Love Song Page 11

  “The legendary music producer?” I choked out. I wrapped my hand around the wineglass to hide the shaking. “I know his work, for sure.”

  “He’s gonna love this,” Bobby said as he flipped through my notebook pages again. “Absolutely love this.”

  “He’s available?” I asked around the lump in my throat.

  “He’s been looking for a new solo female to work with for about two years now. He’ll jump on board. No doubt.”

  My eyes widened. Presley tried to get Jamie Sage to return her calls for eighteen months. He didn’t respond until Vince made a call for her, and then he said he was “too busy” to take on new talent. Presley would kill me when she found out Sage was producing my EP.

  This didn’t bode well for our reconciliation.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, taking his glasses off.

  I nodded and forced my lips into a smile. “Just nervous. Jamie Sage? Nothing like easing me into all this.”

  Bobby laughed. “If Jamie agrees, we’ll get you two in the studio pronto. If you are anything like your stepfather, you’ll knock out enough songs for an EP in one session.”

  “How do you know how Vince works in the studio? He’s never been signed to your label,” I said.

  He cocked his head. “Rafe didn’t tell you?”

  I narrowed my eyes and took a swallow of wine. What had Rafe failed to tell me now?

  “I was the producer on Anthem’s first platinum album. It’s how I made my bones.” He smiled at me. “Don’t look so surprised. I was under Gary Grimm’s tutelage when I started out. Spent countless hours in the studio with old Vince. Known his boys since they were in diapers.” His face went soft. “Knew his wife Claudia too. She was something else entirely. Perfect yin to his yang, you know?”

  I offered a weak smile. “I’ve heard she was great.”

  Actually, what I’d heard was that she was the antithesis of Pamela. That Vince’s heart shredded when she died. Pamela was like an active “fuck you” to the loss of Vince’s true love.

  “She was beautiful too. I see echoes of her in your sister.”

  “Nikki?” I asked absently. I saw a black-and-white photo of her once, and I recalled her being short. By the time we moved into his mansion, the only trace left of his first wife were Kyle and Dion.

  “No. Presley. Same spirit.”

  “Presley’s no yin to anyone’s yang,” I muttered.

  Bobby’s considerable eyebrows shot up. I crossed and uncrossed my legs under the table just to keep them from running out of the restaurant. How the hell did we end up talking about Presley and Vince? And yins and yangs?

  Bobby reached across the table and held my arm. “It’s cool, Jett. I get it. I read the tabloids. We’ve all seen him out with Presley.”

  “Out with Presley?” I asked, stiffening under his touch.

  “Sure, they’ve been spotted at all the right places the past few weeks. She’s his next big star,” he said, giving my arm a squeeze. Once he released it, I relaxed back in my seat. “And you’re our next big star. It’ll be great. A little sibling rivalry keeps the gossip mill churning.”

  The waiter placed two steaming plates of gnocchi in front of us. I picked up my fork and pushed my food around, my appetite gone.

  Bobby popped a forkful in his mouth and closed his eyes. “Perfect. This is perfect. What do you think?”

  I stabbed a dumpling with a tine and brought it to my mouth. I smiled and chewed, but I could barely taste it, my mind now on Presley. She was running around town with the man who was in the middle of a contentious divorce from our mother. Given her reaction to me today, maybe she had something to hide.

  “Would you excuse me?” I asked, grabbing my bag. “I need to run to the lady’s room.”

  “Everything okay?” he asked, looking at my plate.

  “It’s delicious,” I said. “I’ll just be a second.”

  Once I angled my way around the tables through the restaurant, I raced to the bathroom. Door closed, I turned the lock and leaned against it, pulling out my phone. I stared at the blank screen. Who the hell was I going to call? Presley? I bit my lip and pulled up Rafe’s number. Maybe he knew what the hell was going on.

  He picked up on the fifth ring. “You on your way home? I am starving.”

  “Order takeout,” I snapped. “You never told me you wanted to have dinner tonight.”

  “Because you creeped out of the apartment this morning, didn’t even wake me up to say bye,” he said. “I thought we’d grab breakfast. Talk through some shit.”

  “Let’s not talk about that,” I said, my cheeks burning.

  “Jett, we’re gonna have to talk about it sometime,” he said.

  “Why the hell is Vince running around town with Presley?” I blurted out.

  “Wait, what?” he asked.

  “Vince and Presley,” I said. “I’m having dinner with Bobby—”

  “You’re having dinner with Bobby?” Rafe asked, his voice clipped.

  “It’s a work thing,” I said, my voice edged with impatience. “And that’s not what’s important here. Why is Vince parading Presley out in public?”

  “Parading Presley? Is that what that prick Bobby called it?”

  “He’s not a prick!”

  “He banging you?”

  “What the hell kind of question is that?” I asked, my voice close to yelling.

  “It’s a damn honest question.”

  “On what planet?”

  “I got you that gig. The least you could do is be professional.”

  “I am being professional. And you’re being an asshole,” I snapped. “Why would you assume that I’m balling my boss?”

  “Maybe because your sister is!”

  I pressed the palm of my free hand on the poured concrete countertop and said nothing.

  “Shit,” Rafe muttered. “Jett? Jett, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  Presley and Vince? No way, there was no way.

  “Why are you saying this?” I asked, my voice shaky as I held back tears.

  Rafe’s breath was ragged over the phone. “It’s just what’s been going around. They’ve been out a lot publicly. It’s just gossip. Means nothing.”

  “How come I haven’t seen anything about it?”

  “Because you don’t pay attention to this shit,” he said, his agitation palpable. “Dammit, Jett. How would you see what’s going on with anyone else? You can’t even see what’s right in front of you.”

  His words cut through me. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Forget it,” he said. “I’m done. Hope you got your keys, I’m out for the night.”

  The line went dead. I put my phone on the counter, bent over, hands on my knees, and inhaled slowly, forcing myself to pull it together. Whatever was going on with Presley and Vince would have to wait. Bobby was sitting at the table waiting for me, and I needed that paycheck more than anything. I straightened, splashed some water on my face, sucked in a deep breath, and made my way through the restaurant and back to him.

  “Everything okay?” he asked, concern pulling on the corners of his eyes.

  “Yes, sorry,” I said, waving my cell phone still in my grip. “Nikki had a minor meltdown about…” I stared at my cooling plate of pasta, trying to conjure up a Nikki meltdown. “Dinner. She’s making dinner for Dion.”

  “Not much of a cook?” Bobby asked.

  “Not even a little,” I said, slipping back into my chair. That part wasn’t a lie, at least.

  “She okay now?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said, picking up my fork. “She’s much better.”

  “Good,” he said. “Because we’ve talked enough about your sisters. We need to talk about you.”

  “I’m all ears,” I said, tamping down my anger at Rafe to focus on the man who would be signing the checks.

  He smiled. “Great. As I was saying, I want to line up Jamie Sage to come into the studio with you, and I think he will. I told hi
m you were special, and he trusts my opinion. But Jamie’s availability is tight.”

  “I imagine it is,” I said. If there was an intonation for starstruck, I totally hit it.

  “Given his schedule, he only has this week open to record, then a week to mix. We could be ready in a few weeks’ time.”

  I choked down a whole gnocchi. “This week? But the songs aren’t even ready.”

  “I beg to differ,” Bobby said, glancing at the open notebook in front of him.

  “They need more work,” I insisted.

  “You’re a perfectionist. Good,” he said. “But now is not the time for perfection. The songs are ready enough for Jamie. He’ll iron out whatever kinks there are while you guys are in the studio. You need to cut four songs in about ten hours, so we don’t have time for perfection. We do have time for salable. You think you can do that?”

  I swallowed a mouthful of wine, chased with a gulp of panic, which didn’t go down nearly as smooth. “I’ll make it happen,” I said into my wineglass.

  “That’s what I love to hear,” he said. “And Viv is sorting out your wardrobe tomorrow?”

  I cringed. “That’s what she said.”

  “Great,” he said, pouring more wine into both our glasses. “I look forward to seeing what she comes up with.”

  I downed the entire glass in one go, wondering what exactly she was going to come up with and hoping it didn’t involve booty shorts or cleavage.

  Bobby just grinned. “Want dessert?”

  “No, thank you,” I said.

  “Great, let’s head to The Dragon Lair, then.”

  “Wait, The Dragon Lair?” I asked as he stood and stretched. The Dragon Lair was a trendy Sunset Boulevard rock club. The A&R machines from all the major labels went there to fight over talent.

  “Yeah, I want you to catch the eight o’clock band.”

  “But,” I stammered, “what about the check?”

  “Owner,” he said, taking my arm and steering me toward the front door.

  Shit. Of course. Silent partner. Just like Vince and Parma. Jeez.

  “Bobby, I should go home,” I said, my thoughts on Rafe. His anger had been unmistakable even over the phone. Although I wasn’t exactly sure why I cared.

  “Why? You turning into a pumpkin?” he asked, handing a ticket to the valet in front of the restaurant.

  “I need to get ready to record,” I said.

  “What’s to get ready for?” he asked. “I want you to check out the drummer in this band. I’m thinking of him for our recording session.”

  “But Sage hasn’t agreed yet,” I said.

  “He will,” he said, like Sage’s agreement was just a formality. “So, this drummer. Heard mixed things. I think we should go hear for ourselves.”

  My head was reeling. “But Nik’s my drummer.”

  “Nik’s Satan’s Sisters drummer,” he said, as the valet pulled Bobby’s Tesla to the curb. “And she’s Rogue Nation’s drummer. Ergo, she belongs to Grimm.”

  “No. I mean, Nik’s the only drummer I’ve ever played with.”

  “Time for you to branch out, then.”

  He opened the passenger side door for me, and I slid into the soft leather seat. The door closed, and I let the peace of the silent car quiet my brain and calm my nerves.

  “So, who’s this drummer?” I asked as Bobby climbed into the driver’s seat.

  “Johnny Frieze,” he said.

  “Johnny Frieze.” My heart sank.

  Bobby clapped his hands together. “Great! You’ve heard of him.”

  “He was one of Rafe’s friends,” I muttered, sliding farther down into my seat, wishing I could disappear. “Rafe called him Ice Man.”

  “Because of his name?”

  “Yup,” I said, not adding that he was a cold son of a bitch. He dumped me because of the Rogue Nation tour. A tour he’d assumed he would be on. But Nik got the gig, not him. So he dumped me. He was my first real heartbreak.

  And now he would play drums in my first recording session with Jamie Sage. Just great.

  “Wonderful! So you two can get reacquainted before the recording session.”

  “Perfect,” I said, forcing myself to smile as Bobby glanced over at me. “This is just perfect.”

  16

  Nikki promised to send the cavalry—meaning her and Dion—in response to the text I sent her the minute we got to The Dragon Lair. A host escorted Bobby and me to a banquette close to the stage, and I watched Johnny Frieze pound on his drum kit. The guy was all flair and zero finesse, but there was a lot of power behind him.

  “I don’t think his style quite matches my songs,” I shouted over the music, preferring Nikki’s precision grooves and fierce intensity. Frieze was too flashy, which masked a simplistic technique. That said, he was the power driving the band. He who bangs the hardest…

  “Normally I’d agree,” Bobby yelled back. “But Sage thinks you need a power percussionist backing you. His drumming will be what separates you from Satan’s Sisters.”

  I just nodded while my eyes tracked Johnny. He ripped off his soaked-through T-shirt, his muscled chest glistening with sweat. Damn. Guess he’d clocked some gym time over the past few months. His defined shoulder striations roped into rock-solid biceps. His hair, once enviably long and thick, was cropped short and bleached out, accenting his chiseled cheekbones. His face captured the orgasmic frenzy of a drummer lost in his beats.

  I hated to admit it, but Ice Man looked good.

  For just after eight, the club was already filling up. Impressive considering LA club going didn’t ramp up until the later hours. Frieze’s band was clearly developing a following, which had probably also factored into Bobby’s decision to bring him into the fold. Bobby’s smart business decision was an awkward one for me.

  My phone vibrated in my lap, and I glanced down at the incoming text. Nik was stuck in a traffic jam on the 101. I gripped my phone tighter. What was she thinking taking the 101? It was easier to cruise through the LA sprawl than to take the highway.

  Bobby nudged his knee against mine under the table. “Isn’t that your sister?” He lifted his chin toward the sea of bodies that encased the entry.

  How the hell did Nikki get through traffic that fast? Did her car turn into some Jetson-style hovercraft?

  My stomach knotted when the crowd parted and Presley sauntered through the opening. She headed toward the banquette tables on the opposite side of the room with Vince, his arm hanging loose around her shoulders, absently playing with her hair.

  “What are they doing?” I said, shocked at the sound of my voice. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.

  Bobby settled back in the booth. “Looks like they’re doing what we’re doing.”

  “But we’re not doing that.”

  Bobby gave Vince a chin lift, who returned it. “Neither are they. It’s just for show. You’ll see.”

  Presley followed the angle of Vince’s chin, and her eyes went wide when they landed on me. I grimaced and gave her my best finger wave. She reached into her bag and dug out her phone. Before I could even pick mine up off the table, it vibrated.

  What R U doing here?

  What was I doing here? Well, that question took some freaking nerve.

  No, what R *U* doing here? With VINCE? I sent back in response.

  She glanced up at me from her phone, her eyebrows knitted together.

  We r scouting for studio musicians.

  I bit my lip, wondering if I should tell her. I went for it. Us 2.

  Her response was a swift: ?????!!!!!????

  I blew out a breath before typing. This isn’t abt me.

  She shot me daggers from across the room. UR here w/ Bobby f-ing Gee! Vince is pissed.

  I glared back at her. Vince, his hand absently stroking Presley’s shoulder, didn’t look pissed. If anything, he looked ready for S-E-triple-X.

  Nvrmd about Bobby. What are U doing with our—

  I stopped typing, wondering if I wo
uld regret typing the final word of the sentence. The nerve of her to question what I was doing here with Bobby. She was already working in the studio with Vince, who was likely the one who’d made Grimm give her a fat advance. Not to mention that she had her studio session money to fall back on. My entire life was stuffed into one duffle bag. I’d been kicked out of school for not paying tuition. I was sleeping on Rafe’s couch.

  Okay, so the past four nights I was in Rafe’s bed. But that was only because… well, because.

  Oh, the hell with it. I finished the text with DAD and hit send.

  Presley looked down at her phone, her lips pressed together. She nudged Vince with her elbow and whispered in his ear. He looked over at our table, and then slipped out of the booth. Presley stood, tottering in her spike-heeled boots in her haste. My eyes tracked up from her shoes, and I saw that her skinny jeans were hanging low on her hips. Her baby doll T-shirt, usually curve-hugging, was baggy, her chest unable to hold it up. She was definitely losing weight and fast. What the hell kind of pressure was she under with Grimm?

  Vince laid a steadying hand on her elbow, which she shook off. She narrowed her eyes and stalked toward our table. Once again, the crowd parted for her. Presley was like freaking Moses. My fingernails cut into the vinyl fabric of the booth as she came closer. Vince followed behind, but he didn’t look angry, more like confused.

  Presley slammed both palms on the table, vibrating the entire booth. My face flamed with embarrassment, and I glanced at Bobby, who looked delighted that Presley was about to cause a bona fide scene in the middle of one of LA’s hottest clubs.

  “What is your problem, Jett?” Presley hissed as Vince caught up to her.

  “I don’t have a problem.”

  “Really?” she asked, reaching into her back pocket. She yanked out her phone and waved it under my face. “What’s with the bitchy texts, then?”

  “I was just asking a question.”

  “Well, I don’t like the way you asked it.”

  “That sounds like your problem, not mine,” I snapped back.

  Presley’s eyes went wide, and she bared her teeth at me.

  Bobby stood and clapped Vince on the shoulder as they shook hands. “Vince, my old friend, great to see you.”